There is an Air of Majesty.

There is an air of majesty,
A bearing dignified and free,
    About the mountain peaks;
Each crag of weather-beaten stone
Presents a grandeur of its own
    To him who seeks.

There is a proud, defiant mein,
Expressive, stern, and yet serene,
    About the precipice;
Whose rugged form looks grimly down,
And answers, with an austere frown
    The sunlight's kiss.

The mountain, with the snow bank crowned;
The gorge, abysmal and profound;
    Impress with aspect grand:
With unfeigned reverence I see
In canon and declivity
    The All-Wise Hand.

Alfred Castner King

Alfred Castner King was an American poet. He is recognized for his significant contributions to American poetry. Despite battling with blindness, his disability did not deter him from crafting poetry that captivated many readers. King often wrote about nature and personal experiences, reflecting a deep appreciation for the world around him and the nuances of human emotion.

Alfred Castner King

Fame.

Alfred Castner King, Simple Poetry

To the Pines.

Alfred Castner King, Simple Poetry

The Valley of the San Miguel.

Alfred Castner King, Simple Poetry

Reflections.

Alfred Castner King, Simple Poetry

English

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Grandeur.

Dedicated to the mountains of the San Juan district, Colorado, as seen from the summit of Mt. Wilson.


I stood at sunrise, on the topmost part
Of lofty mountain, massively sublime;
A pinnacle of trachyte, seamed and scarred
By countless generations' ceaseless war
And struggle with the restless elements;
A rugged point, which shot into the air,
As by ambition or desire impelled
To pierce the eternal precincts of the sky.

        Below, outspread,
A scene of such terrific grandeur lay
That reeled the brain at what the eyes beheld;
The hands would clench involuntarily
And clutch from intuition for support;
The eyes by instinct closed, nor dared to gaze
On such an awful and inspiring sight.

The sun arose with bright transcendent ray,
Up...

Alfred Castner King

Reflections.

On the margin of a lakelet,
    In a rugged mountain clime,
Where precipice and pinnacle
    Of countenance sublime,
Cast their weird, austere reflections
    In the water's glistening sheen,
I strolled in contemplative mood,
    Both pensive and serene.

As in a crystal mirror,
    In that lakelet's placid face,
I saw the mountains upside down,
    With all their pristine grace;
I saw each cliff and point of rocks,
    I saw the stately pine,
Inverted in fantastic form
    Below the water line.

I paused in admiration;
    And with calm complacency
I marveled at this photograph
    From nature's gallery;
And as my eyes surveyed the scene
    With solemn grandeur fraught,
This simile flashed through my mind
    As i...

Alfred Castner King

In The Sierra Nevada

I lift my spirit to your cloudy thrones,
    And feel it broaden to your vast expanse,
        Oh! mountains, so immeasurably old,
        Crowned with bald rocks and everlasting cold,
    That melts not underneath the sun's fierce glance,
Peak above peak, fixed, dazzling, ice and stones.

Down your steep sides quick torrents leap and roar,
    And disappear, in gloomy gorges sunk,
        Fringed with black pines on dizzy verges high--
        Poised, trembling to the thunder and the cry
    Of the lost waters, through each giant trunk,
And farthest twig and tassel evermore.

Behold far down the mountain herdsman's ranche,
    The rough road winding past his lonely door,
        And in his ears, by day and night, the sound
        Of mad waves plunging d...

Kate Seymour Maclean

Suggested by a Mountain Eagle.

I gazed at the azure-hued mantle of heaven,
    The measureless depths of ethereal space;
I gazed at the clouds, so invisibly driven,
    And an eagle, which wheeled with symmetrical grace.

I gazed at that eagle, majestically wheeling,
    With dignity, born of the free mountain air;
I envied that bird, with an envious feeling
    Which springs from a heart that is shackled with care.

I envied that eagle, which bowed to no master,
    But soared at his will, through the ambient skies,
Defiant of danger, and scorning disaster,
    He screamed at the cliffs, which re-echoed his cries.

I envied that bird, on that fair summer morning,
    When nature lay decked with spontaneous art,
As he circled, with aspect defiant and scorning,
    And perched on a...

Alfred Castner King

Mount Houvenkopf

Serene he stands, with mist serenely crowned,
    And draws a cloak of trees about his breast.
    The thunder roars but cannot break his rest
And from his rugged face the tempests bound.
He does not heed the angry lightning's wound,
    The raging blizzard is his harmless guest,
    And human life is but a passing jest
To him who sees Time spin the years around.

But fragile souls, in skyey reaches find
    High vantage-points and view him from afar.
How low he seems to the ascended mind,
    How brief he seems where all things endless are;
This little playmate of the mighty wind
    This young companion of an ancient star.

Alfred Joyce Kilmer

Written With A Slate Pencil On A Stone, On The Side Of The Mountain Of Black Comb

Stay, bold Adventurer; rest awhile thy limbs
On this commodious Seat! for much remains
Of hard ascent before thou reach the top
Of this huge Eminence, from blackness named,
And, to far-travelled storms of sea and land,
A favourite spot of tournament and war!
But thee may no such boisterous visitants
Molest; may gentle breezes fan thy brow;
And neither cloud conceal, nor misty air
Bedim, the grand terraqueous spectacle,
From centre to circumference, unveiled!
Know, if thou grudge not to prolong thy rest,
That on the summit whither thou art bound,
A geographic Labourer pitched his tent,
With books supplied and instruments of art,
To measure height and distance; lonely task,
Week after week pursued! To him was given
Full many a glimpse (but sparingly bestowe...

William Wordsworth